Hola, amigos. What’s up? I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I’ve had a lot of problems lately. First off, I been slaving trying to find a new job. The last time you heard from me, I was moving furniture. Well, a few weeks ago I was out for a night of partying with Ron, and before you know it, it was 2 in the morning and we were still going strong. Since it was a work night, and I like to drink responsibly, I was taking it easy on the beer. The weed was flowing like water, though.
Well, it’s more like I had weed and Ron was taking advantage of my weakened state and telling me to keep packing more bowls. If I had been in my right mind, I would have told him to buy his own damn bud, but the problem with good bud is that it don’t put you in your right mind. And this was some damn good bud.
Anyway, we stayed up for another hour or so until I finally crashed in the middle of some show on how to make a ton of money buying and selling real estate. The last thing I remember is Ron saying how this was a good idea and how he was going to do it so he could tell his boss to fuck off while he drove away in his new Jag. When I woke up, Ron was poking around in the refrigerator eating a two-week-old slice of pizza. I couldn’t handle that, so I went back to sleep.
When I woke up again, the sun was out and there was a note on the door from Ron saying he ate my pizza and rolled a joint for the road. I was plenty pissed off when I read that, so I stormed out and went to go find Ron. Only there was an empty space where my car was supposed to be. I was really mad by that time, and I figured the only thing I could do was go back in and smoke a bowl to calm my nerves. It’s kind of a good thing, too, ’cause I was just in my undies, and that’s no way to dress someone down for taking your weed.
Anyway, after a few tokes, I was able to think straight, and I figured Ron had taken my car so he wouldn’t be late to work. Then I looked at the clock and noticed I was about four hours late for work myself. Well, my blood was boiling again, so I took a few more hits off the bowl and went to sleep. When I got up again, it was time to take action. I tried calling Ron at work, but I realized I didn’t know exactly where he worked. I mean, I ain’t stupid or anything—I know where he works—but I didn’t know the name of it. Something with “tires.”
I wound up calling him at home to leave a message, and wouldn’t you know it, that lazy sack was there. He called in sick so he could catch some sleep. He told me that, yeah, he took my car, and he was bringing it over right now. I put on my best ass-kicking face and waited. About 10 minutes later, the phone rang. It was Ron. He started to be all nice and stuff, asking me how everything was going, but I knew that only meant he was trying to sweet-talk me. I told him I would call him back and hung up on him.
If he was going to give me shitty news, I figured I should be good and ready for it. I packed another bowl, smoked half of it, and rang his number. He started in on all the nicey bullshit again, but I told him to can it and tell me what was going on. It turns out that he left the keys in my car, and that it wasn’t where he parked it anymore. I made him stay on the line to a whole lot of quiet while I finished the bowl. Then I told him to take care of it, ’cause I was going back to bed.
What the hell was I thinking? If I hadn’t been so baked, I would have run over there at top speed and given Ron the ass-whipping he deserved so bad. But, no. I couldn’t say no to the weed. I probably don’t have to say that I got canned the next day when I got to work. The worst thing is that I had to shell out $6 for a cab just to get fired. That’s just adding insult to injury, hombre.
But it’s not like I liked that job anyway. Another week or so and I was going to quit. I’d had enough of being yelled at for scratching floors and dropping pianos. If they didn’t want me to scratch their damn floor, they should have moved their furniture themselves! But now I got to go through the hassle of kissing all new ass just to make some cash.
It’s my wheels that I’m most concerned with. Not like they were anything special, but I gotta be able to get around. Ron says he feels so bad that he’ll buy me a new car. But he also said he’d buy me a new tape player after he spilled a beer on my boom box, and that ain’t happened yet, and I ain’t expecting it to happen any time soon.
This is it. I gotta cut down on that weed. This week alone, it cost me a job and a car. Well, I guess it kept me from jail, ’cause I woulda gone postal on Ron if I wasn’t tokin’. So that’s a pretty good reason not to quit altogether. You got to take the negative with the positive. It’s like the ads say—enjoy in moderation. Plus, that shit ain’t cheap.
Jim Anchower joined The Onion’s editorial writing staff in 1993 after several distinguished years on The Come Back Inn dishwashing staff. He comments on community-affairs, automotive, and employment issues. He attended LaFollette High School in Madison, WI.
